3.25

For most of my collegiate “career” (for lack of a more derogatorily appropriate word), I have held in my heart something of a resentment, even disdain for Creative Writing Majors. It's not because they smell (particularly) funny. Nor do we have any sort of “Bloods v. Crips” turf war going, as one might experience in, say, the sciences (“Chemistry be straight trippin' with that new research grant; we biologists gotta represent, yo!”). No, my lukewarm animosity is partly envy, partly ideological purity, partly flat out player (or playwright) hating. 

To me, the very idea that one would be a “creative writer” implies that one has some ambitious notion that they, themselves, have a well, nay, a keg of mindblowing creativity waiting to be tapped. These bountifully pent up wonderjuices can, presumably, be bottled in wordstuff form and shipped for mass consumption. Theoretically, this results in extravagant meals, giant homes, one's name and works praised throughout the blog-o-sphere and blog-o-rectangularprism alike, and all kinds of other progressively ludicrous rewards gushing forth for the taking. Or maybe you just get to have fun; heck if I know. 

Naturally, the realities are much more cardboard-and-fastfood related. And while I'm sure there are many “writers” with much more humble assessments of their capabilities and futures, I still say that a will-be-hobo is a will-be-hobo whether they know it or not. 

Now, as a member of the “English Literature” crowd, I certainly cannot make the assertion that inevitable homelessness is a deal-breaker. Admittedly, it is no less ridiculous to think “Well, I like to read. Maybe I could, like, do that, but with money.” Whether it's redeeming that I'm headed to teach high school instead of waxing philosophical in my corrugated mansion, I leave to you to decide. 

Suffice it to say, Literature, to me, is a tool, a springboard used to dive into philosophy, politics, ethics and empathy, with the Lit Major's role being that of pushing and prompting that which most engages and challenges to the fore. Creative Writing is just an attempt to clamor for the Lit Major's highly refined (coughpompouslyinflatedcough) attention. 

But that's all inside baseball (which is still more entertaining than actual baseball, but so is pocket lint, so there you are). The larger, more pertinent point is that, despite my snark, as I near my escape towards career-shaped horizons, I sometimes worry about the path I've chosen. I look at Creative Writers with envy, desiring their capacity for grand creation, their potential, their chance, albeit infinitesimal, to truly make something of themselves (in the conventional sense). 

Like so many aging young people, ridiculous in their secret ambitions, yet still desiring the insane caliber of achievement that seems so fallaciously within reach, I'm becoming fearful. The fear of an artist, a would-be CEO, a politician, and any individual with ambition is largely a fear of failure, a fear that one's best try won't push the “extra” onto that “ordinary.” But I think the fear for many of us opting for degrees of practicality over ambition, sooner or later, is a fear of mediocrity, a fear of accepting “reasonable” outcomes instead of aiming for the highest goal possible. 

This is the sort of realization that prompts grown adults to buy extravagantly fancy cars, date people decades younger than them, and inspire legions of creative writers (particularly of the white, middle class variety) to pen text after text about how much the suburbs suck. It's a matter of mortality, of the impossibility of a perfect ideal gradually revealed as unattainable. It's compromise. And it's a losing battle worth fighting every inch of the way. 

So, sure, like many people, I would like to write the “Great American Novel.” But I don't think I'd enjoy it (or get paid) as much as what I'm planning on doing now. Whether I enjoy that or not is a better fear, but that's a problem for next year. 

For now, creative writers (and all of you with ambition), you have my envy. It's not some grave sin to reach for the stars; I sometimes just wish I could talk myself into doing it, too.